Chiricahua Reckoning

AGUA VERDE WASH, ON THE RIM ABOVE CANON SENISA, 11 JUNE 1874

Buck pulled up to the top of a hill of crumbled shale and rock, trying to see over the fringe of cholla and ocotillo.  A sudden gun blast caused him to jerk in surprise. The shot echoed through the canyon before him and reverberated off the far walls of the canyon, fading and ebbing as it echoed away. The shot sounded as if it had come from very close.  

Buck pulled his Henry rifle from its saddle scabbard and dismounted, tying his horse to the ocotillo.   He moved swiftly to the crest of the rising hill, sliding into a prone position.  He eased up to the rim of the canyon on his belly, careful not to skyline himself.  

Who had fired that shot? Why?  Why only a single shot?  

Buck was not sure.  It made sense that if the riders had encountered Apaches, there would have been shooting, but there should have been a flurry of shots.  At least two shots, anyway, one for each rider, even if the Apaches did the only firing.  Yet only a single shot had sounded.

Buck hefted the Henry up into firing position and levered a .44 cartridge into the chamber, then crawled forward to peer over the edge of the hill in front of him.  A man had to be careful when he was looking into trouble, especially if that trouble might come after him.  

The Henry was a tad bit older than the Winchester Yellowboy that had been out for eight years already, and which dated back to the war.  It was definitely not as fancy as the new 1873 repeater that Winchester had produced the year before, Buck thought with resignation, but it would certainly do the job.  The Henry could carry fifteen bullets in its magazine, enough to fire all day according to some accounts.  The Henry was an old and comfortable companion to Buck.  It was true that it was getting harder to find rim-fire .44 ammunition for the Henry, since most rifles had long since converted to center-fire cartridges, but Buck was more than satisfied with his rifle.  If he needed more than fifteen bullets to deal with the situation, then he was in for a hard day indeed.

Keeping the Henry's muzzle low so its barrel would not reflect the sunlight, Buck carefully edged up and peeked over the hill.  He saw that one of the riders was down, trapped under his horse, struggling to get up.  The other rider had dismounted and was walking toward the first, cocking the lever of an 1863 Sharps carbine.  

Buck's eyes narrowed.  The downed rider appeared to be a young boy.  The other was a grown man.  A deep furrow etched itself across Buck's forehead as he tried to calculate what was happening.  Something was wrong here.

"I got to hand it to you," the man with the carbine said as he walked toward the boy, "I don't know how you figured it out, boy."  The man casually jacked another round into his Sharp as he walked, pointing it in the general direction of the child.  "I have to hand it to you, though, you surely did figure it out."

Buck felt a chill run down his neck despite the growing heat.  The man was walking toward the kid and pointing the rifle.  Did he really intend to shoot the boy?

"What I don't know is what gave me away," the man continued with a wry grin.  "I kind of pride myself on my deceitfulness, you see.  I'm right curious to know how you knew, kid."

"You lied to me!" the boy snapped in a high-pitched voice as he struggled vainly to free his trapped leg.  "You told me my pa was alive!"

"Well, he ain't kid," the man said with a satisfied grin.  "I lied, all right.  He's deader than a doornail, and I killed him.  Don't you worry none, though.  He's done et up by buzzards and coyotes by now.  Now, I'm gonna kill you, boy.  Them critters'll be dining on you before sunset, too, just like they did your pa."

The boy struggled frantically, gritting his teeth in the sunlight just beginning to play across the canyon floor.  The man halted and carefully aimed the Sharps at the boy's face.

That was enough for Buck.  He quietly brought the Henry up and sighted on the man's belt buckle.

"You said we were going to Bisbee!" the boy screamed in fury.  "But you were taking me north.  Bisbee isn't north, it's southeast of here."

"Now, how in tarnation does a kid like you know which way north is in a trackless desert like this?"

"I know where the sun rises," the boy replied.  "It always rises in the east.  It was on our right, and that means we were heading north."

"Hmm." the man grunted, then laughed.  "I didn't think a snot-nosed kid like you would pay any attention to a thing like that.  How'd you know that?"

"My pa taught me."

It all dawned on Buck in that single searing instant.  This had to be the sharpshooter's kid.  He had somehow survived the gunrunners and the Apaches, and now this grown man was going to shoot him down like a dog!  

Buck hesitated only an instant.  As much as he had against Lucas McCain, he had nothing at all against the man's son.  The boy was not tainted by his father's sins.  He was an innocent.  What kind of man could shoot a kid down in cold blood, he wondered?  The question made Buck angry.  He had no intention of standing by and letting it happen.

"Well, boy, say hello to your daddy when you see him," Chambers said, and he started to take up the slack on the trigger.  

Buck shot him at that moment.

The .44 caliber cartridge was small enough that the Henry did not kick noticeably.  Buck had aimed at the man's vitals, but the bullet stuck high.  The 216-grain lead bullet smashed into the Sharps in Chambers' hands, midway between the receiver and the fore stock.  Wood splintered and the Sharps fired, its own bullet plowing up sand as the carbine spun out of Chambers' hands, end over end, and landed in the sand five feet away.

Chambers staggered back, staring at his numbed hands.  He looked stunned

 Buck levered a fresh round into the Henry and came up into a kneeling position, keeping his sights centered on Chambers' chest.

"Hold it right there, mister," Buck called out loudly.  "That be far enough."

Buck saw the man's head snap toward him, even as the young boy stopped struggling and turned to stare as well.  Chambers had been surprised when the carbine flew from his hands, thinking the gun had exploded.  Looking up at Buck, he knew the truth.  He quickly hid his surprise and smiled at Buck, keeping his hand clear of his gun butt.

"Howdy," Chambers said.  "This ain't what it looks like, mister.  You don't know what's going on here."

"Ah know enough," Buck replied, his own eyes dark and mean.  "Ah know a man who's about to shoot an unarmed kid when I see one.  I know a low down, sidewindin' killer when I see one, too.  And even though I may not know everything, I be pretty certain you ain't got no call to gun down no child.  We hang people who do things like that around these parts."

"Just who the hell are you?"

"Cannon.  Buck Cannon, of the High Chaparral."  Buck saw the man's eyes widen in recognition of the name, and it gave him a certain satisfaction.  "So, mebbe you kin explain what this be about.  Looks to me like you was gonna murder that boy.  I'd be a sight interested in hearin' you explain it any other way."

Sod Chambers felt his blood run cold as he looked into the eyes of Buck Cannon.  He was stunned, shocked that they had been found so easily, despite his mad dash to get himself and the boy far out into the desert before sunrise.

This is one of them Cannons who own the High Chaparral, Chambers thought in fear.  He had heard tell of Buck Cannon in town.  If Buck Cannon has followed you, then the High Chaparral men have returned home.  If they have, that could only mean one of two things.  The first possibility is that your men have been caught, captured or killed before they could murder the people back at the ranch.  The second possibility is that your men got away and the Mexican woman and the blonde man are already dead.  If that's the case, this man is here to kill you in revenge.

Either way, Chambers knew that no Cannon was likely to let him live after what he had brought down on their family.  There was no way that Cannon could have returned home, rescued his relatives, and then tracked him this far eat so fast, yet there he was.

"Ah'm waitin,'" Buck said.  "You best git to explainin' or fightin,' unless you only fight children.'"

Explaining?  What was there to explain?  Chambers stared at Buck in open wonder.  Perhaps this Cannon did not have all of the facts.  Otherwise, why would he be asking questions?  If the folks at his house were dead, he would not be asking questions.  Since he was asking, he might not know what was happening.  Chambers thought it unlikely, but he was not going to get another chance to test his theory, so he grinned.

"Well, see, there was a rattler by the boy, and—"

"I heard what you told the boy about killin' his pa, and I heard you say you was gonna kill him, too," Buck replied, his voice as hard as steel.  "You're just lyin' now.  The only rattler near that boy is the one standing in my sights."

"Well, hell, guess you caught me," Chambers said.  "I ain't got no other explanation."

"Now, why would you want to go and hurt a lil' boy kid?"

"Because I know who he is!" Mark yelled from his position under the horse.  "He's Sod Chambers!  He's one of the gun-runners who shot my pa and gave me over to the Indians.  He and his men captured Mrs. Cannon and Blue! They're going to kill them.  That's why he wants me dead, because I know who he is and what he's trying to do."

Something cold and vicious uncoiled in Buck's stomach, and his eyes were dark and bottomless as he faced Chambers across the sand.  

"Victoria and Blue Boy been captured?  By his men?"

"Yes, back at the ranch," Mark replied.

"You better hope they's not a hair on their heads been hurt," Buck said menacingly, leveling the Henry at Chambers' belly.  "Or you gonna live just long enough to really regret it."

"Look, we can make a deal," Chambers said casually.  "We're both intelligent men.  I can call my men off the ranch, but first we have to have an understanding."

"No deals," Buck snapped.  "A man what hurts my family, a man who would hurt a kid, well, he don't get no deals.  Cain't trust a man like that.  Only deal he gets is in lead, friend.  And you done drawn a deuce against a full house."

"You don't leave me much choice, fella," Chambers said, his grin disappearing.  "We either got to have us a deal or we gotta shoot it out."

"Reckon so," Buck replied.  "I done told you, you ain't getting' no deals. You best get to shootin'."

"Well, guess I have nothing to lose then."

"Only yo' life."

Chambers' hand slapped at his gun belt, and he was fast, clearing leather as his thumb cocked his Colt in a fluid motion.  He was just bringing it into line when Buck shot him.  The bullet spun Chambers around and he staggered, taking a short step before he collapsed face down in the sand.

Buck stood and stared at the man's body grimly, then struggled down the hill of sand and shale as he rushed over to the boy.

"Now, hold tight, boy," Buck told him, leaning the Henry against the flank of the dead horse.  "I'm gonna lift on this hoss and you can pull yo' leg out."

Buck pulled on the saddle with all his might, lifting the weight of the horse just enough for Mark to pull his foot loose.  Releasing the horse with a gasp, Buck knelt beside the boy and looked at his leg.

"You all right, boy?"

"Yes, sir.  Is Chambers dead?"

"I reckon.  What's yo' name, son?"

"Mark…Mark McCain."

Buck sighed deeply and then shook his head, the corner of one side of his face crinkling up into a wry grin.

"Ah thought so," he said dryly.  "Victoria and Blue Boy, was they all right afore you and he left the High Chaparral?"

"I suppose so," Mark replied, pulling on his hat.  "But Chambers, he hit Mrs. Cannon a few times, and he left eight or nine men there.  They all had guns, and they weren't being too nice to Mrs. Cannon or to Blue.  Blue was wounded."

Buck's eyes narrowed again, and he rubbed a gloved knuckle against the side of his mouth as he thought about the situation.  Victoria and Blue Boy alone with eight or nine cutthroats…that did not bode well.  Not well at all.  Men like that would not care about the lives of the people they held.  He wondered how nine men could just ride in and take the ranch.  This Chambers had struck Victoria, too.  For the first time in his life, Buck was glad he had shot a man.

"Where's Big John?"

"Mr. Cannon?  Well, he left yesterday morning," Mark said.  "Told Mrs. Cannon that he was going to someplace called the north ranges, wherever that is.  Said he wouldn't be back until last night, only he never showed up."

"I don't understand something, son," Buck said, standing up as the boy stood.  "How come you rode all the way out here with this fella, knowin' he was the one what shot yo' pa?"

Mark's eyes glistened and they became watery, huge drops threatening to spill as he looked out across the desert, his shoulders slumping.

"He…he told me my pa was still alive," Mark said in a thick voice.  "He said he was being kept in a doctor's office over in Bisbee.  He said they'd been working together with the Army, and that his shooting of Pa had been a ruse.  I thought that maybe…well, I guess I just hoped that…but he lied.  He lied about everything."

Buck, always tenderhearted around children, felt his own eyes sting as he saw the despair written on that small face.  He reached out and placed a hand on the boy's shoulder.

"Easy, son.  Everything's gonna be okay now.  Ah got some news I 'spect is gonna cheer you right up.  But first, I gotta get back to the High Chaparral and see what I kin do for Victoria and Blue Boy.  How early did ya'll ride out of the ranch this mornin'?"

Mark opened his mouth to answer, and suddenly his eyes widened in horror.  His mouth opened in a silent scream as he began to back away.  Perplexed, Buck held up his hands.

"Easy, boy, it's all right," Buck said, and the boy screamed.  

"Look out!  Behind you!"

A sledgehammer blow smashed Buck in the back of the shoulder.  A gun blasted very near behind him, loud in the morning air, and the bullet smashed into him with bone-jarring impact.  Buck staggered and fell, then rolled over as he tried to pull his pistol from its holster, but his right arm was numb and useless.  Buck looked up to see a bleeding Sod Chambers holding his own Colt as smoke streamed from its barrel.

"When you shoot a man, you best make sure he's dead," Chambers said, and for once he did not smile.  "Now, you've shot at me twice, Mr. Cannon, and you haven't killed me either time.  But you hurt me, yessiree, you hurt me.  Now, you're gonna pay for that.  Looks like your luck has played out.  You won't be making a grab for your gun with that right arm, and I can kill you before you can use the other hand.  You're a dead man, Mr. Cannon, but you'll not be the first to die.  I'm gonna kill that kid first."

Buck quickly staggered to his feet and stepped between Chambers and the boy.

"Cain't let you do that," he said through clenched teeth.

"You can't be serious," Chambers said, faintly amused.  "I can empty this Colt into you before you can draw with your left hand.  A cross-draw like that will take all day and you know it.  You're not that loco."

"Like you said, I ain't got no other choice," Buck said softly.  "No matter what you do, I'm gonna fight.  And you'll have to kill me afore I let you harm one tiny hair on that lil' boy's head."

"You know, that's the trouble with you do-gooder types," Chambers said.  "You're always messing into other people's business.  Then you up and do stupid things like come to a gunfight and want to use your fists.  If'n I was a mean sort, well, I'd just gut-shoot you now and let you watch me cut that boy's throat.  I only bet on sure things, and it's a sure thing I can whip the daylights outta you.  You ain't got but one arm to fight with, anyway.  If I was a mean sort, I'd just kill you.  But I'm a sportin' man, and I'd sure like to beat the stuffin' out of you."

"Come ahead," Buck challenged.  "If you got the sand fo' it, that is."

"Think I will," Chambers said, and he dropped his Colt in his holster, lunging forward.  Buck saw him coming and sidestepped right, hooking hard with his left fist.  The blow was solid, slamming deep into Chambers' stomach, and Buck heard the air huff out of the man as it doubled him over.  Buck could not throw the right that would have normally followed, so he hammered down with his left fist on the side of Chambers' face.  

Chambers fell to his knees and shook his head, then stood up slowly.

"You're pretty tricky—" he started to say, and Buck punched him hard in the mouth with his left fist, knocking Chambers flat on his back.

"You gonna talk or fight?" Buck asked him.  

Chambers scrambled to his feet and felt blood running from his mouth.  His eyes widened in fury and he came at Buck again, fists flying.  A hard fist smashed into Buck's jaw, causing him to see stars for a moment, even as another slammed into his stomach.

Buck staggered, bending over in pain, as Chambers came up with a driving knee, intending to smash Buck's chin.  Buck avoided the blow and hooked the knee with his open left hand and yanked up, causing Chambers' to staggered, allowing Buck the chance to lunge in and slash a hammer-fisted forearm down across Chambers' chest.

Chambers staggered back and bent over, trying to catch his breath, then began circling warily.  Blood was running down his right side, but the bullet wound was not hurting enough to slow him down much.  He circled, fists coiled, as he looked for an opening.  Buck pivoted in place, waiting, and then Chambers lunged in, throwing a powerful overhand right.  

Buck ducked left and stepped forward, twisting his right side forward outside of Chambers' punch.  Chambers' knuckles grazed Buck's back as his punch missed, and Buck twisted left, hooking his left hand inside Chambers' punching hand, then twisted hard to the right.  The sudden move locked Chambers' arm and threw him to the sand in a heap.  

Chambers tried to stand, but Buck backhanded him with a left, knocking him down again.

Desperate now, Chambers swung his legs, kicking Buck's legs from under him.  Buck fell on his right side and grunted with pain as his wounded shoulder struck the sand.  In instant later, Chambers was on top of him, punching as fast as he could.

Blow after blow smashed into Buck's head, and though he managed to turn his face to avoid getting a broken nose, each blow threatened to knock him senseless.  He curled his left arm about his head to protect it from the punches, saw an opening, and threw a left cross, connecting hard with Chambers' chin.  Chambers hesitated, lifting his hands, and Buck drove into him, slamming a left uppercut into his heart.  Chambers grunted a peculiar way, his lungs making a strange squeal as Buck hit him, and he coiled over slightly, twisting left as he held his heart with both hands.  His right hand hooked up into the left side of Buck's jaw, but it was weaker now, and Buck punched him in the heart again.  

Chambers' eyes glazed and he started to collapse, and Buck grabbed him by the throat with his left hand and slammed him flat onto the sand.

Chambers gasped for air as he lay on his back, and for the first time, he felt real fear that Buck Cannon might actually win the fight.  The twin punches to his heart had caused spots to appear before his eyes, and now the wind had been knocked out of him as well.  He could not get his breath, and Buck was pounding him into the ground with only one arm.  

Chambers snatched up a hand full of sand and tossed it into Buck's eyes.

Buck's eyes snapped tight as Chambers threw the sand, and he shook his head, trying to clear his vision.  Chambers quickly picked up a rock and slapped him across the side of the head.  It was a glancing blow, but Buck staggered and collapsed in the sand.  Chambers stood over him, doubled over and gasping for breath, and his right hand pulled his pistol.

"You're not fighting fair!" Mark screamed at him.

"Who fights fair, kid?" Chambers growled back.  "I fight to win.  And I was losing that fight.  Man was whipping me with one arm.  But I ain't lost yet."

"But you said you wanted to beat the stuffing out of him!"

"I lied," Chambers replied.  "You think I'm stupid, boy?  I got a bullet in me and he's whipping me.  I ain't got time for this.  His friends'll be following his trail."

Buck rolled over on his back and shook his head, staring at Chambers.

"Knew you was a coward," he said.

"I'm a man who like to stack the odds in my favor," Chambers replied.  "A man in my line of work don't get ahead by being fair.  Fair only gives the other man a chance, and usually gets you killed in the process.  Fact is, Mr. Cannon, there ain't no advantage in fightin' with you.  I'm in this for keeps, and for that I have to win.  That's all there is to it.  I'm afraid your luck has done run out.  Good bye."

Chambers lifted the gun and aimed at Buck.

"Leave him alone!" Mark yelled, and he jumped forward, grabbing Chamber's wrist and latching on with his teeth.  Chambers yelped in pain and surprise, then shook his arm, swinging it wide, knocking Mark into the sand.  Chambers stared at the bleeding bite marks on his wrist and cursed, then thumbed back the hammer on the Colt.

"I'll teach you, you little whelp!" he yelled, and he brought the gun up on Mark.  Buck struggled to his feet, dizzy, knowing he could never make it across the intervening distance before Chambers could pull the trigger, yet knowing he had to try.

"Chambers!" a new voice yelled, and Chambers hesitated, turning around to look up on the crest of the hill over which Buck had ridden.  A bareheaded man sat atop a horse on the hill.  He had reddish hair and a lantern jaw.  His face was battered, but Buck instantly recognized him as Lucas McCain.

McCain's right held the reins of the horse he was riding, and he held a Winchester in his left.

McCain threw his leg over the saddle horn and dropped to the dirt, and his left arm pumped, spinning the Winchester end over end in a split second.  The rifle made a loud click-clack sound as the flipping motion cocked the rifle.  It came to rest in the same position it had started.  McCain quickly brought his right hand to the trigger guard and made a slight motion with his fingers, as if adjusting something on the trigger guard.

"Pa!" Mark squealed in delight, and Buck lunged forward, diving onto the boy and covering him with his own body.

"Drop the gun, Chambers," Lucas said, his voice as hard as gunmetal.

Chambers moved the gun away from Buck and Mark so that it pointed to the side, aimed at nothing but sand.  He looked down at his right side, stared the blood staining his own shirt and trousers, and seemed to come to some kind of decision.  Not moving anything but his head, he slowly looked up at Lucas.

"Why the hell won't you die?" he asked incredulously.  "I swear, killing a McCain is damned near an impossible job.  I keep killing them and they keep coming back."

"I said drop the gun," Lucas warned.  "Now."

"My men will be coming," Chamber warned.

"Not in this life," Lucas replied.  

"What do you mean by that?"

"They went for their guns, but they were too slow.  I wasn't."

Chambers smiled a little, his old-time charm returning.  The odds had now shifted considerably, and not in his favor.  His own rules of survival had for so long kept him out of such situations, but somehow he had managed to get snared up in this one, and now his options had come down to only one way out.  He looked toward Mark laughed with some exasperation.

"You see, boy?  I guess I didn't lie after all.  Your pa is standing alive right there.  Now, how about that?  I'm as surprised as you are."

"Drop the gun," Lucas repeated.  "I won't tell you again."

Chambers' smile slowly faded, and he looked at Lucas and shrugged.

"I can't do that, Mr. McCain," he said.  "You see, if I just give up, well…there's only a rope waiting for me.  I can't tolerate ropes much, I really can't.  I surely ain't partial to being hung."

"You'll get a fair trial," Lucas replied.

"Sure I will," Chambers said with a bittersweet laugh.  "And right after my fair trial they'll hang me.  After all, I am guilty.  No, thanks.  I got me other plans."

Chambers lowered the Colt until it was pointing at the sand at his feet.  He seemed to relax as he regarded Lucas, who had seen this kind of pose too many times before.

"You don't have to do this," Lucas said.

"Yeah, I really do," Chambers replied.  "Guess it had to come down to this eventually, McCain.  What with you bein' alive and all.  I don't particularly like these odds, but the fact is, I'm all out of choices.  I got to play the only hand left open to me.  Even if it means bucking a stacked deck."

Chambers snapped the pistol up in a lightning fast move, and the Colt bucked in his hand.  His body rocked on its heels as five .44 caliber bullets stitched him from belt buckle to collar bone.  He danced with spasmodic jerks as the bullets struck his body.  The last round spun him around, and he staggered a step, getting his legs crossed before collapsing in a bloody heap. The succession of rapid shots echoed off the canyon walls and faded.

Lucas flipped the rifle again, ejecting the last spent cartridge casing as he stared down at what was left of Sod Chambers.

"Pa!"

Mark burst up from under Buck and started running at full speed, and Buck stared in wonder as McCain ran toward his boy, dropping the rifle to scoop him up in his arms.  Mark sobbed as Lucas held him tight in the lonely canyon, and Lucas' own eyes filled with tears of gratitude.

"I thought I lost you, Pa!" Mark sobbed.

"I thought I'd lost you, too, son," Lucas replied, his voice hoarse with the emotions flooding him, and Buck felt his own eyes sting from where he sat watching the tearful reunion.  Lucas and Mark held each other for a full minute, and then Lucas placed his son on the ground and picked up his rifle.  He lifted Mark up onto his shoulders, piggyback style, and held the Winchester behind his back, making a seat for the boy.  Mark's face had exploded into a brilliant smile.  

Lucas walked up to Buck, carrying Mark on his back, and nodded.

"Thank you.  I saw what you did," Lucas said.  "You saved my son's life."

Buck placed his black hat on his head and struggled to his feet, dusting off his long black vest with his good left hand.

"That the way it 'peared to you?" he quipped wryly.  "Looks to me like you saved both of us.  You an' that rifle.  How'd you know where we was?"

"I was already riding this way fast, and I heard the shots."

Buck picked up his own Henry and started toward his horse.

"You'll pardon me, but Ah got a date at the High Chaparral.  Got me some kin folk in a bind with this fella's men."

"Not anymore," Lucas said.  

"How you know that?"

"I just came from there.  Everything's all right."

Buck slowly looked from Lucas to where the body of Chambers lay, and then he looked at Lucas again.  His eyes fell to the Winchester a moment, and then he nodded.  Buck grinned a little, rubbing his chin with the back of his good hand.

"Ah'm right glad to know that," he said, and Lucas grinned.  A sudden clatter of rushing hooves alerted them, and Buck cocked the Henry as a rider appeared over the top of the hill behind Lucas and Mark.  The rider was moving fast, his hat flying behind him on straps as he started down the shale slope toward them at full speed.

"It's Mano!" Buck exclaimed, and he stepped forward to greet his friend.

Manolito screeched to a halt before them in a cloud of dust and dismounted without pausing.

His boots struck the sand a moment before the Apaches attacked.

II

IN THE ROCKS ABOVE CANON SENISA

Pionsenay glared angrily at Rehumado, furious that the young warrior had fired prematurely and spoiled his carefully crafted ambush.  Pionsenay's scouts had picked up the sight of two riders earlier that morning as the blackness had turned to gray, and reported their presence to Pionsenay's cold camp.  The riders had been heading north, away from Tucson, just the kind of ambush Pionsenay had been looking for.  They had been just west of the Empires when Pionsenay led his band of twenty warriors to track them.  The morning chase had been uneventful, and Pionsenay had wracked his mind, trying to decide upon a proper ambush point, when he had suddenly recognized one of the riders.

Chambers, the white eyes that traded guns to the Apache.  He had been shocked to realize that he recognized the other rider, too.  It was the young white child he had left with Taza in Cochise's camp.  Pionsenay's eyes burned with hatred as he had considered Taza's betrayal.

Word had come that Cochise was dead, perished of an evil curse placed upon him by a shaman.  The curse had invoked evil spirits that had come to rest in the great chief's belly, where they had caused pain and turmoil until he had finally died.

Pionsenay and Cochise had never seen eye to eye.  In fact, Pionsenay had never liked him much, but he had always respected the chief's accomplishments.  While he hated Cochise's sons, Cochise himself had been a great leader of the Chiricahua, and none had doubted his courage.  Some of the young had questioned it, irreverently and disrespectfully, but the older warriors had known the stuff of which Cochise had been made.  The Tinneh had lost a great warrior with his passing.

Despite that, Pionsenay was furious that Cochise's band had not put the boy to death as he had expected.  He had left the child in Taza's care, fully expecting that Taza would torture the captive as was proper.  The fact that the child was not only alive, but also apparently able to ride a horse, was proof that Taza and his whole band were nothing but women; weak warriors not worthy of the name Chiricahua.  They were not even capable of torturing one white eye child.  All they could think of was peace, and ways to escape the soldiers.  They were not warriors.  They were not worthy of protection any longer.

Pionsenay's first instinct had been to shoot the boy and take his scalp, but curiosity had gotten the better of him.  Had it not been Chambers himself who had given the boy over for torture?  That had been an unusual gift from a white man.  How had the white child escaped Cochise's camp in the Dragoons and returned to the custody of the white man?  Why was the white eye Chambers now riding along with the child as if they were friends?  They were interesting questions, indeed.

He had decided to wait on the ambush, curious to see where they were going.  Pionsenay knew that waiting was often the wiser choice if one was unsure of the victims' destination.  His men had ridden along in stealth, watching from the high ground, as the two riders had descended into a canyon. Then they had spotted a third white man, a lone rider in black, with a yellow scarf around his neck.  The third rider was wandering down the bottom of a wash when suddenly the child had broken his horse into a run.

Then the truly astonishing had happened.  Chambers had taken a rifle and shot not the child, but his horse.  This had attracted the attention of the third rider, who had ridden up to a rise and bellied up just as any Apache would, watching as Chambers had approached the boy.  A confrontation had developed, and Pionsenay had ordered his braves to hide in the rocks and observe, fascinated by what was transpiring below.

He had shaken his head as he had watched the exchange of shots and the subsequent fistfight.  Who would ever understand the white eyes?  They did the strangest things.  They built villages of dirt and wood that could not move and were forever destined to be trapped in their own refuse.  The white eyes had always done strange things.  They dug for the yellow metal in the mountains; metal that was admittedly pretty, but quite useless.  Gold was not edible, and it was far too soft to use as a weapon.  It was essentially useless from the Apache point of view, except perhaps as artwork.  For some reason, however, the white eyes and the Mexicans seemed to place great value upon it, and they murdered and plotted against each other to possess it.  

Pionsenay could not understand this love of gold.  Gold could provide nothing that a strong man with good wits and weapons could not provide for himself.  Yet, the white men and Mexicans seemed to value the gold even more than they did their own guns.  They would do virtually anything to get it.  Even selling weapons to their mortal enemies, the Apache.

Pionsenay ordered his men to be still as a fourth rider came racing up the canyon, riding at breakneck speed as he studied the tracks in the sand.  Pionsenay's eyes had immediately recognized the repeating rifle in the man's hand, and he remembered how he coveted the weapon.  Yet, he waited, fascinated, as Chambers shot the third white man from behind, then tried to beat him up.  He watched as Chambers' shot attracted the fourth man to the location of the fight.

Pionsenay had recognized the white child's father with a reluctant approval.  This was the man that Ahulindo had tried to scalp, the one who had jumped off the cliff.  This was the man that had, instead, killed the lone-walking warrior.  They had trailed this man for a few days, but had lost his tracks near a dry wash.  Somehow, this white man, supposedly dead, had not only returned to life, but had managed to get his rifle back from Chambers.  

He had watched the resulting gunfight with grim acceptance.  It was right, in a way, that the father sought vengeance upon the man who had tried to kill him and his son.  There was justice in that which any Apache would understand.  That the man had killed Chambers was of some small importance, as it meant Pionsenay's immediate supply of army rifles had just dried up.  He had sat up in sudden appreciation, however, as he had watched the boy's father fire the repeater.  He had fired it very fast, far faster than Pionsenay had ever seen a gun fired before.

Chambers was dead.  Anyone could see that.  There was nothing that Pionsenay could do to help him.  Yet, there were two rifles down there, both lever action repeaters, one of which was a marvelous weapon which fired very rapidly.  It would be good to have those rifles, for they would be of use against the Mexicans and white settlers along the border.  There were two pistols down there as well.

Pionsenay watched as the men united, and was surprised when his scouts reported a fifth rider, this one a Mexican, who was following fast in the tracks of the boy's father.  

Pionsenay understood it at once.  Two of the men below were from the white eye ranch of Tall One.  He had seen them before, working cattle, but at the time Tall One's ranch had been under the protection of Cochise.  Cochise was dead now.  His orders no longer mattered.  Pionsenay would not follow the orders of Taza or Naiche.  What mattered were the guns the men possessed.  It was time to take those guns.  He had to decide how best to kill the three men and the child in the canyon below.

He had been starting to explain the ambush when the boastful young warrior named Rehumado had lifted his carbine and fired at the Mexican.

Cursing, Pionsenay lifted his own rifle.  The young warrior's impatience had destroyed what would have been a perfect ambush, once the warriors had attained their desired positions.  Thanks to Rehumado, the ambush had been sprang before his men were in place.  The odds were still in the Apaches' favor, but the fight would be much harder now that the white men were alerted.  He would have to chastise Rehumado later for his impatience.

Pionsenay gave the attack yell and brought his rifle up to his shoulder, sighting along the barrel.

It was time to kill.

III

ALONG THE FLOOR OF CANON SENISA

Manolito saw the wink of the rifle high above him, like the brilliant flash off a mirror, and he instinctively rolled to one side of the horse.  He clung to the horse, hanging onto the beast's mane as his right foot kicked free of the stirrup.

A .50 caliber slug split the air where he had been only a moment before, chipping a furrow into the pommel before hitting the rocks behind him and ricocheting away across the canyon, whizzing crazily.

Instantly, Lucas pushed Mark down behind the dead horse for protection, even as he dropped to one knee and began pulling .44-40 cartridges from his shirt pocket, thumbing them quickly into the Winchester's loading slot.  

Buck dropped to the ground and rolled behind some rocks, grunting as he rolled over his wounded shoulder.  He looked up as more bullets kicked up sand behind Manolito, who had drawn his pistol and was running full out.  Manolito dove into a roll and came up beside Buck as he crouched behind the boulder.

"It's 'bout time you got here, Mano," Buck chuckled, grinning despite his pain.  "I'm getting kind o' tired of havin' to trap all these bad men by myself."

Manolito's cheeks dimpled and he displayed the edges of his teeth in a restrained grin and shrugged.  "You are all right, compadre?" he asked.

"Ah been better," Buck admitted.  "On the other hand, Ah been worse, too.  Who's shootin' at us now?"

A loud series of yips and cries escaped from the rim of the canyon walls, as several bronze forms dodged and darted between rocks and brush, zigzagging their way down toward the canyon floor.  The forms disappeared and reappeared as they moved, making themselves difficult targets.

"I would say they are Apaches," Manolito replied calmly.

"A-Pach," Buck said disgustedly.  "Just what we need now.  Why did you go an' bring the whole A-pach nation down on us for, Mano?  Whose side you on, anyway?"

"Yours," Manolito replied, cocking his nickel-plated Colt.  "I had to bring them, amigo.  I would not have wanted you to become bored."

"I 'spect boredom ain't gonna be a problem today," Buck replied, bringing the Henry up to search for targets.  He quickly pulled the rifle back and opened the loading tube, dropping more rim-fire cartridges into the magazine.  When it was full, he closed the tube and levered a fresh cartridge into the Henry's chamber.  Fifteen rounds loaded, he thought tersely, but with only 25 grains of black powder per cartridge, the Henry's range was far shorter than the .50 caliber rifles the Apache were using.  

Buck sighted on a target and fired, the bullet falling far short of the Apache, kicking up dust low on the canyon wall.

"He is well out of range," Mano warned.

"Ah know that," Buck replied.  "Ah'm just mad at 'em."

"We had better conserve our ammunition."

"Yeah, you may be right, Mano," Buck agreed.  He had fourteen rounds left in the Henry, five rounds in his shirt pocket, and another eight rounds in the band on his arm.  "I got twenty-seven rounds left for the rifle.  Anyone else got any .44 rim-fire?"

Manolito shook his head.  "I have only the bullets in this pistol," he said.  "Plus another twenty on my gun belt."

"All I've got are .44-40," Lucas replied from behind the dead horse.  "They're all center-fire."

"How many?"

Lucas counted a moment, then looked at him.  "About eight."

Buck quickly checked his own pistol.  Five rounds in the pistol and another twenty-four on his belt.  He did the sums in his head quickly.  They had only eighty-nine rounds to fight off an untold number of Chiricahua warriors.  Most of the weapons fired incompatible ammunition.  Worst of all, all of the ammunition, including that of the rifles, was essentially pistol ammunition.  None of their weapons had the range of the Apaches' army rifles.  

All of their weapons were essentially useless until the Apache got closer, within fifty yards.  They, however, were already at the mercy of the Apache, whose longer-ranged .50 caliber buffalo rifles could throw a 550-grain bullet well over eight hundred yards.  The Winchester and the Henry did not have nearly the same firepower as those Sharps rifles, though they could be fired faster.  

Another rifle fired from the canyon wall.  The bullet made a loud thunk as it smashed through the canteen hanging from the saddle of the dead horse the McCains were using for cover.

"Save that canteen!" Buck called out.  "Them A-Pach figure this for a long siege.  They're trying to cut off our water supply."

Lucas reached over with his hand, pulling on the canteen strap as more bullets thudded into the horse's flank.  The canteen disappeared over the top of the saddle.

"You able to save any water?" Buck called out.

"About half a cup," Lucas answered.  "Those Army bullets leave a big hole.  Most of it's gone."

"We got enough ammo for one charge, maybe two," Buck said grimly.  "After that, it'll get interesting.   Mano and me got pistols, so we got a little more ammo than you.  But we can't cover you much from this position once the rifles are empty."

"I don't have a pistol," Lucas replied.  "We may have to make a dash for those rocks behind you."

"Mebbe.  But wait 'till we use up the rifles.  By that time, them A-Pach will be close enough for our pistols with a chance of hittin' something."

It was a grim situation for them as the sun slowly turned the floor of the canyon into an oven.  The Apaches had the advantage of superior cover, higher ground, and superior firepower, but despite their attempts to destroy the canteens of the white men, Buck knew they would actually try to end it quickly.  There was no advantage to the Apache in making a long siege just to kill four people.

"They gonna get a lot closer," Buck said to break the silence.  "You gonna need to make each shot count, Sharpshooter.  If we can hurt 'em enough, they might think twice and pull out."

"You certain?"

"Fairly," Buck admitted, wiping sweat from his eyes with his bandanna.  "Cain't be no big bunch of Chiricahua, or they'd have overrun us by now.  My guess is this is just a raiding party of them renegades we keep hearin' about.  Maybe two dozen warriors, tops.  I seen this before.  Them bucks'll run quick, fire, fall and roll away.  You'll never see 'em get up from the same spot they fall.  Keep that in mind.  Expect 'em to roll to one side or the other.  That way you can be ready when they show themselves again."

Suddenly it was quiet and very hot.  The temperatures were rising, the heat reflecting off the canyon walls.  The resulting convection sent the temperature soaring as they waited.

An insect droned lazily in the hot sun, landing somewhere nearby.  The guns in their hands began to grow hot from the sun, and Buck looked longingly at the Sharps rifle that lay where he had knocked it from Chambers' hands.  If he could get to that weapon, they would have some countering firepower, but it was too dangerous for him to try for that rifle in the open.  The Apaches would be waiting for just such a move, and their accuracy in hitting the canteen made him hesitate.  He might be able to get the rifle without being hit, but he did not know if it still worked.  On the other hand, if he tried and was hit…well, a strike by a .50 caliber bullet would ruin his whole day.

They waited in silence and nothing moved in the heat.

The charge came suddenly and furiously, a cacophony of gunshots and flying lead, as a dozen warriors rushed the trapped white men.  The Apache ran in furious zigzags, trying to present difficult targets as they sought out succeeding cover from brush and rock.  

Lucas twisted the screw on the trigger guard, loosening it from the trigger, as he levered in a round, and brought the rifle up and fired.  One Apache suddenly threw up his arms and staggered, clutching at his chest before turning as if to run away.  Then he fell on his face in the sand and lay unmoving.

Buck and Manolito fired as the Apaches rushed in.  Buck brought the Henry to his shoulder, looking for a target, and fired two rounds, dropping a second warrior, who was quickly pulled into the brush by coppery hands.  A warrior arose and fired as he ran.  Manolito shot at him, causing him to dive behind a pile of rocks.

Levering a fresh round into the chamber, Buck left the Henry at his shoulder as he looked for targets.  The Apache attack had faded as suddenly as it had begun.  All was again quiet.

A sudden movement caught his eye, and he saw a moccasin slowly move into cover behind some brush.  Buck aimed at that spot and fired, levered the action and quickly put two more bullets five feet to either side of that spot.  He was rewarded with a muffled cry as one of the bullets made contact, and there was thrashing in the brush for a few moments until silence returned.

The Apaches were now close, and hidden from sight once again.  

After a moment, the Apache opened up with everything they had, the fury of their firepower forcing the white men to duck for cover as bullets smashed into horseflesh and rock all around them.  After the initial fusillade, the fire slackened as the Apaches reloaded their rifles, and Buck, Lucas and Mano returned fire, aiming at the places where puffs of smoke revealed the presence of the hidden shooters.

"Ah got ten rounds left in the Henry," Buck called out.

"Three, here," Lucas responded.

Buck grimaced as Manolito quickly reloaded his Colt, pressing the expended shell casings out of the gun's cylinder, then pulled fresh bullets from his belt.  Most of the remaining firepower existed only between Manolito and himself, and the Apaches were much closer, opting to get in close enough for hand-to-hand combat.  The only good thing was that the white men could now use their own guns to effect.  The Apache had forfeited the long-range firepower advantage they had previously held for a chance at personal glory.

"They's in among us now," Buck said.  "They'll try again, harder this time.  Sell yourselves dearly, boys.  We gotta break 'em or go bust on the next one!"

Mark sat up to see what was happening, and Lucas pressed his head firmly down below the dead horse's flank.

"I want to see, Pa," the boy complained.

"Keep your head down, son, or the last thing you may see is a bullet hitting you in the face," Lucas warned.  "I have enough to worry about without you exposing yourself needlessly."

"Yes, Pa."

Lucas sighed and twisted the screw down onto the trigger again.  He had three rounds left, but he knew he would need to fire as fast as possible when the Apache made their rush.  After that…well, the rifle would be just another club after that.

Six Apaches suddenly burst from the brush, rifles held low as they rushed with violent intent, straining to get in among the white men before they could react.  Lucas caught the movement and rolled to one side, seating the butt of the Winchester against his hip as he pumped the lever rapidly.  Three shots exploded out, dropping half of the attackers.  The three remaining warriors hesitated only a moment before resuming their mad rush, faces grinning beneath the horizontal stripes of white war paint slashing across their noses.  They saw Lucas sit up and turn the rifle around as a club, and grew confident, knowing he was out of ammunition.  Lucas stood to meet them, holding the Winchester by its barrel like a bat, even as the Apaches pulled knives and hatchets.

Buck fired four quick shots, tumbling two of the warriors into the sand, but the remaining one came on, stopping just outside of club range, and he lifted his rifle to fire at Lucas.  Lucas stepped between the warrior and Mark, knowing there was nothing he could do, but instinctively trying to protect his son.

Buck cursed under his breath as Lucas' move suddenly blocked his view of the Apache.  Buck rolled to one side, trying to find a clear shot, but he knew he would not be in time.

Before Lucas, the warrior impassively brought his rifle up to fire.  Suddenly, he let go of the rifle and clawed at his back, his eyes open in wonder.  The warrior took a faltering and then collapsing on his face.  Lucas stared, fascinated by the arrow sticking out of the warrior's back.  The fletching of the arrow still quivered in the bright sunlight.

Two more Apaches appeared at the edge of the rocks, aiming at him, and Lucas dove for cover as they fired.  Another arrow skewered one of the Apaches, even as Buck and Manolito fired simultaneously, dropping the other.

"Who is shooting arrows?" Manolito exclaimed, firing at another retreating shadow.

A sudden flurry of Apache screams behind them caused Buck and Manolito to recoil with surprise, their blood gone cold.  They rolled in opposite directions, turning to face the threat behind them.  

The Apaches had them surrounded at last.  Buck sighted on a charging warrior and prepared to fire, halting only when he realized the warrior was not shooting at him, but was instead aiming at the other Apaches.

One warrior leaped from the rocks and ran toward the McCains.  Lucas stood to meet him, but stood mutely stunned as his son yelped and rushed to meet the Apache, embracing him like a long lost brother.

"Good see you, Leathersleeves!" Coyani screamed in glee.  "Now you see how brave Chiricahua warriors fight.  Now you see not all Apache same!"

Lucas stood mute, not sure what to do, as another dozen Apaches raced past him and gave chase to the others, who were already fleeing back up the steep canyon walls.

Fifteen feet away, Buck stared in wonder as Apache attacked Apache, chasing them across the canyon as gunshots boomed and screams split the air.

Coyani gripped Mark by the shoulder, and grinned.

"I go now, Dikohe.  You safe now."

With that, the Apache youth was off and running, pursuing his comrades across the canyon floor.  Pionsenay's warriors had suddenly found more enemies than they could fight.

Taza emerged from the brush, yelling as he held his rifle aloft.  Then he spurred his horse in hot pursuit as more Apaches followed him, ignoring the white men staring at them in wonder.

Buck pushed his hat back on his head as he sat with his Henry across his knees as he watched, shaking his head.  Manolito touched his arm, and pointed southwest, and Buck looked in that direction.

A large number of white men were roaring into the canyon, rifles in hand, as they raced to the rescue.  Buck grinned as he watched them come screaming to a halt before him.  His grin grew even larger as John Cannon leapt from his horse with his pistol in hand, looking for a target.  John's eyes focused a moment on the dead horse and Chambers' body, then moved about as he looked at the dead Apaches scattered across the canyon floor.

"Howdy, Big John," Buck exclaimed happily.

"Buck?"

"It's me."

"I should have known you'd be in the center of this," John sighed, holstering his pistol, but his eyes smiled in relief.  "Everyone okay?"

"We be peachy now, John, but it was gettin' kind of tight."

John nodded slowly as the rest of the men fanned out in a defensive perimeter, their rifles ready as they watched the far off battle of Apaches as it moved up the canyon wall.  John looked at Lucas.

"I take it you're McCain?"

"I am," Lucas replied with a grin.  "You must be this John Cannon I keep hearing about."

"I'm John Cannon," John admitted dryly.  "I'm glad to meet you, McCain, but a little surprised.  I had thought you were dead."

"There were times when I thought I was, too," Lucas sighed, squinting into the bright sunlight.  "Like a minute a go.  And earlier this morning.  But your wife saved me then."

John chuckled.

"Judging from the mess in my living room," he said, "I'd have to say you saved her, too.  Is that Chambers?"

"That's him," Mark answered with satisfaction, gripping his father's leg.  "That's the man who shot my pa."

John walked over and turned Chambers over with a boot, then nodded grimly.

"Chancy Jones," he muttered.  "One and the same.  Buck, what happened here?"

"Well, Big John, that's a long story," Buck replied, wiping his face with a gloved hand.  "See, I was just riding along, when I come upon that man tryin' to kill this boy.  Then this McCain fella rode up and shot him, and then them A-Pach attacked us, and then we was saved by them other A-Pach."

"Taza's men," John replied.  "We met them on the trail some miles back, trailing the renegades.  Since the death of Cochise, Taza and the renegades have had a parting of ways.  Taza has decided to drive them out of Arizona for good, to try to lessen tensions between the reservation and the Army."

"I'd say there was no love lost between 'em," Buck admitted, then his eyes opened in question.  "What you mean 'bout Cochise?  He died?"

"Yes, but that's a long story, too," John said, and he stared at Buck with concern.  "You're hurt."

"Nothin' serious, Big John.  Though, I admit, it do hurt a mite.  That fella lyin' in the dust got the drop on me.  The boy tried to save me.  His daddy did."

"Yes, well, he saved a lot of people today," John replied.  "Including Victoria and Blue."

"They all right?"

"Blue's injured, but nothing too serious.  He'll be mending for a couple of weeks, however."  John squatted to look at Buck's wound.  Satisfied it was not a threat to Buck's life, he turned and stared at Lucas.  "McCain, it looks like I owe you a lot.  The lives of my wife, my son, and now my brother."

"You don't owe me anything, Mr. Cannon," Lucas replied.  "Your brother saved my son's life.  In fact, he's saved me twice now.  I'm the one who owes him."

"Oh?"

"Yes, it was Buck and Manolito who found me wandering in the desert."

"He was not exactly wandering," Manolito said, shrugging.  "He was hunting."

"Hunting what?" John asked.

"Trouble," Manolito replied, straight-faced.

"Looks like he found it," John replied dryly.  "Wait to you see the house."

"And I'm even more obliged," Lucas added, "because it was your wife who saved us all.  She passed the knife to me so I could cut myself loose, and she was the one who distracted those men and tossed my rifle to me.  She's quite a woman."

"She is, that," John agreed.

John stared at the Winchester in Lucas' hands, studying its unique lever.  The man carried the rifle as if it were a part of him, an extension of his own arm.  He looked up into the man's face.  Lucas smiled, showing white teeth that clashed with the dark bruises on his face.  So, this was Lucas McCain, he thought, and he extended his hand.

"Whatever the case, McCain, I'm grateful.  And if no one else has said it yet, welcome to the High Chaparral."

Lucas grinned and shook John's hand.  Mark beamed happily as he hugged his father's leg, and Lucas smiled at him and wrapped his free hand around the boy's shoulder.

Behind them, sitting on their horses, Sam Butler turned to look at the other hands watching the scene with sheepish grins, smiling in spite themselves.

"Well, boys, now that's the Rifleman," Sam said.  Sam laughed then, full and hearty, and within a moment, the rest of the hands had joined him.

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